The Pinyon smelled so good when I crushed it. I imagined that this is the smell of the heart --of love being released.
There will be no distinction between inside and out when I return to Death Valley. There will be no past or future, only the space of the present.
Riding along the bay in East Oakland on a sunny Sunday afternoon in winter restores my rhythm of attention.
Groups of knitters are fantastic, funny, and so appreciative of the effort anyone makes to knit. The love of yarn and craft is an instant bond.
I've been secretly on vacation since last Tuesday. Saturday was my father's 70th birthday, but since he reads my blog I couldn't mention it.
Full of anger, sadness, shame and fear I climbed the canyon wall while kicking the ass of every last memory from the failed relationship.